


Retracing the Expanse of Your American Back

by JackEPeace



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Framework relationship, Nothing but smut, Smut, The Framework Universe (Marvel), so you know what you're getting into here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 23:36:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11115270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackEPeace/pseuds/JackEPeace
Summary: “We built this,” he says softly. “We did this. Took this city from nothing: the fear, the chaos. We’ve given it purpose and organization. All of this is ours.” (Smut. This is only smut. There is seriously no plot I am sorry.)





	Retracing the Expanse of Your American Back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plinys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/gifts).



> Title comes from the song "Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings" by Father John Misty, which I also used for my other Ophelia centric fic so why mess with tradition. 
> 
> To Jess, of course, for being the captain of this garbage heap and for doing it so fabulously.

"What are you looking at?"

She can feel his breath hot on the nape of her neck but she doesn't turn around. He doesn't reach for her, doesn't move closer and the possibility of what could happen next vibrates between the two of them.

Ophelia looks past his reflection in the glass to the city below; it's dirty and ugly, as it was back in the real world. Humans, it seems, can only ruin the things that they have. But now, with the sun having set and the lights of the buildings and streets on, it looks almost pretty, like something sparkling and alive stories below them.

"I'm only thinking," Ophelia says simply, watching as brake lights dot the streets below, flaring up red for a moment and then disappearing. "Is everything moving along as scheduled with the project?"

Fitz hums low in his throat, a sound of agreement and a noise of dismissal. "I don't want to talk about work," he says breezily. "I've been in the lab all day." She watches his reflection take out his cufflinks, letting his sleeves open, exposing the skin beneath.

Ophelia doesn't say anything, merely watching him as his loosens his tie, shedding these little vestiges of the man they call The Doctor. He's still composed, cool and calculating, even here, even with her; it's his face the changes the most, that becomes softer and more exposed when they're alone together.

Fitz moves closer and she can feel the ghost of his hands above her waist, how he seems to contemplate touching her without letting himself make contact. "It's beautiful," he says as he studies the city below.

"Is it?" Ophelia watches her reflection, studying the way her face moves, how her eyebrows lift as she asks the question. Here, it's easier to blend in, to be human. There's less thinking that comes before each reaction.

Now his hands come to rest on her hips but his gaze remains on the sparkling lights that spread out endlessly below them. "We built this," he says softly. "We did this. Took this city from nothing: the fear, the chaos. We've given it purpose and organization. All of this is ours."

Ophelia smiles, her lips curling up easily. Her heart is beating faster in her chest now and there's something there, spreading through her, adrenaline, anticipation. She wants to assure Fitz that he's right, that she built this all for him, for them. But he thinks he's done this all for her and it's that thought that makes it easy for her to smile.

"Well," she hums, "when you put it like that…I can see a certain…beauty to it."

She leans back against him, the buttons of his shirt pressing into her back. Already he's ready for her and it only makes her smile. Slowly, Ophelia twists back to face him. "Leopold-"

He doesn't let her finish, moving forward to kiss her roughly and she parts her lips dutifully, pulling him closer. Ophelia reaches for him but he catches her wrist and her body is suddenly pressed against the glass of the window, her arm held above her head. Fitz's grip is tight and she can feel the pressure in her hand and she sighs into his mouth.

Ophelia turns her head slightly, attempting to alleviate some of the pressure against the back of her skull from the glass and Fitz's lips move to her neck and the kisses she can't feel aside from the brief flutters of pressure. But when he uses his teeth, that she can feel, her skin tingling and hot. Her free hand slips through his hair, holding onto him tightly, a tug to encourage him, to direct his lips and teeth where she wants them: the hollow of her throat, her chest where the skin is uncovered by her blouse.

Of course, Fitz makes short work of the aforementioned blouse, seeming to find an abstract type of pleasure in tugging the fabric roughly, popping the buttons, ruining it. He'd told her once, when he'd ripped the side of an expensive dress she'd worn to a Hydra gala, that he'd bought it, after all, so he could tear it off her if he wanted. And he usually does. His head dips lower, his teeth scraping along her skin and his touch, what she can feel of it, is delicious.

Ophelia manages to free her hand from his grip, her fingers working across the buttons on his shirt, moving delicately as he kisses and licks and bites, her skin red to trace where he's been before. His skin his warm beneath her palms and she rests her hands on his shoulders, imagining how it will feel one day to be like this with him and truly feel everything.

Fitz lifts his head and she moves closer to kiss him, taking his lip between her teeth, feeling him shudder beneath her hands. She loves the sounds he makes, the sounds _she_ gets him to make, how primitively human they are. She likes to kiss him, likes to feel this closeness, this pressure, this heat. It feels like they're always so close to something, so close to tipping over an edge where she can feel everything.

But Fitz moves away suddenly and Ophelia opens her eyes, disappointed. His hands are on her hips, his touch heavy and rough. Her breathing is heavy, her heart beat quick and loud in her chest and she feels that thrill, that surge of excitement, when Fitz grabs her, twisting and positioning her so that her back is to him and her hands and forehead are flush on the glass.

Below them the city sparkles and Ophelia can see Fitz's gaze tracking the lights, the imagined movement below, before he turns his head, burying his face in her hair. One hand keeps her wrists pinned in place against the glass, just over her head, while the other moves lower, pushing down the zipper on her skirt.

Fitz groans when he thrusts inside her and his teeth bite down on her shoulder, hard enough to bruise and she whimpers, closing her eyes against the sensation. "Yes," she whispers and she knows that he can hear her. He thrusts into her harder so her body rocks forward, pressing against the window.

He moves inside of her rhythmically, grunting with each thrust, keeping her pinned there between his body and the window so that she can't move even if she wanted to. She doesn't. She only frees one of her wrists, reaching backward for him, her fingers scrabbling for a hold on his shoulder, trying to move him closer.

"Harder," she says just like she always does in moments like this when he's touching her and she can't feel it, not quite. "Harder, Leopold." And he always takes it as a challenge, grabbing her tightly, pushing inside of her, taking her whimpers and sighs as further sounds of encouragement.

Her body can bruise. It can hold onto the proof of these moments, when he bites and holds her hard enough to bruise, to leave red marks behind and she can feel her body responding, her skin bearing the brunt of his touch even as she remains there on the edge, close to something but not close enough.

"We did this," Fitz says into her ear and it takes Ophelia a minute to realize what he's talking about, that his gaze is on the city beyond once more. She nods and he groans, his hands on her hips again, pulling her into the positon that he wants. He pushes into her again and again, hard and fast, and she can feel it, the electric bite that spreads through her muscles. "We did this," he says again. "It's beautiful." His hand is in her hair. "You're beautiful."

Her scalp tingles, electrified, as he pulls her head back, kissing her roughly, sloppily. "Yes," she grunts because it seems to be the only thing to say. "Harder." And he thrusts and she grits her teeth and groans, pressing her forehead to the glass.

When he comes, it's her name on his lips and she can feel it: whispered hot against her shoulder and blooming in her chest, a certainty that this is where they both need to be. He moves away from her, but only briefly, letting his body rest against her back, his skin hot and sticky against her own. Ophelia misses the pressure of him, the pain that she could feel, solid and real and spreading through her body when he held onto her and thrust inside her. Now he's softer, his touches gentler and harder to feel.

But still, Ophelia likes this moment too, when he feels closer to her, when they're connected by their heavy breathing and the memory of what they've just done. Fitz slides an arm around her waist, holding her to him, the window momentarily holding up the both of them. Ophelia uncurls her toes, exhaling slowly, letting her forehead rest against the glass.

She watches his reflection turn its head, pressing his forehead into her temple. She can feel his breath, hot, against her skin. "I love you," he says, softly, as he presses his lips to her hair, to her cheek, her throat.

And she thinks, maybe, if she tries hard enough, she can feel that too.


End file.
